Killed In Action

RUPERT is dead, and RUPERT was my friend;     "Only surviving son of" - so it ran -     "Beloved husband" and the rest of it.     But six months back I saw him full of life,     Ardent for fighting; now he lies at ease     In some obscure but splendid field of France,     His strivings over and his conflicts done.     He was a fellow of most joyous moods     And quaint contrivings, ever on the point     Of shaking fame and fortune by the hand     But always baulked of meeting them at last.     He could not brook - and always so declared -     The weak pomposities of little men,     Scorned all the tin-gods of our petty world,     And plunged headlong into imprudences,     And smashed conventions with a reckless zeal,     Holding his luck and not himself to blame     For aught that might betide when reckoning came.     But he was true as steel and staunch as oak.     And if he pledged his word he bore it out     Unswerving to the finish, and he gave     Whate'er he had of strength to help a friend.     When the great summons came he rushed to arms,     Counting no cost and all intent to serve     His country and to prove himself a man.     Yet he could laugh at all his ardour too     And find some fun in glory, as a child     Laughs at a bauble but will guard it well.     Now he is fall'n, and on his shining brow     Glory has set her everlasting seal.     I like to think how cheerily he talked     Amid the ceaseless tumult of the guns,     How, when the word was given, he stood erect,     Sprang from the trench and, shouting to his men,     Led them forthright to where the sullen foe     Waited their coming; and his brain took fire,     And all was exultation and a high     Heroic ardour and a pulse of joy.     "Forward!" his cry rang out, and all his men     Thundered behind him with their eyes ablaze,     "Forward for England! Clear the beggars out!     Remember - " and death found him, and he fell     Fronting the Germans, and the rush swept on.     Thrice blessd fate! We linger here and droop     Beneath the heavy burden of our years,     And may not, though we envy, give our lives     For England and for honour and for right;     But still must wear our weary hours away,     While he, that happy fighter, in one leap,     From imperfection to perfection borne,     Breaks through the bonds that bound him to the earth.     Now of his failures is a triumph made;     His very faults are into virtues turned;     And, reft for ever from the haunts of men,     He wears immortal honour and is joined     With those who fought for England and are dead.